“You’re still here? Get out of my flat—I’m your husband’s wife now!” declared the blonde in the doorway. The key turned with an odd, stubborn creak.
I shoved the door open, expecting the familiar scent of home—my perfume mingling with the faint polish of the floorboards. Instead, a sickly-sweet, alien fragrance punched the air.
I froze on the threshold, not touching the light. Something was wrong.
On the coat rack beside his jacket hung a stranger’s bright red cardigan. Never seen it before.
My slippers, always left by the door, had been kicked into a corner. In their place stood a pair of elegant stilettos.
My heart flipped. I’d come back from my business trip a day early—meant to be a surprise. Turned out, the surprise was waiting for me.
Silently, I moved into the living room. A vase of fresh lilies sat on the coffee table. I loathed lilies—allergic. Oliver knew that.
Beside the vase lay an open glossy book. Not mine.
I pulled out my phone. Fingers trembling, I dialled his number. The long, drawn-out rings shredded the last of my composure. No answer.
The kitchen bore traces of recent cooking. In the sink, two mugs from our wedding set. One smeared with bright pink lipstick.
A buzzing rose in my skull, like a swarm of furious bees. This couldn’t be real.
A cruel joke, maybe? His cousin from Sheffield, the one he sometimes mentioned? But why wouldn’t he warn me?
I called again. Still nothing.
Then—the scrape of a key in the lock. I flattened against the wall, breath held.
The door swung open. In walked the blonde, dropping grocery bags and toeing off her heels like she’d done it a hundred times.
She turned to flick on the light—and saw me.
No fear crossed her face. Just mild surprise, then cold irritation as she raked me up and down.
“You’re *still* here?” she said, as if I were a misplaced relic.
I couldn’t speak. The air had left my lungs.
She scoffed, arms crossed. “I won’t ask twice. Pack your things and get out of *my* flat.”
The shock thawed into ice-cold fury. I stepped forward.
“*Your* flat? Are you mad? This is mine. Mine and my husband’s.”
She laughed—sharp, ugly. “*Ex*-husband,” she corrected. “And the flat’s ours now. Seems you’re slow on the uptake.”
She strode past me, snatched the Stockholm throw from the sofa (last year’s souvenir), and tossed it aside like rubbish.
“Oliver said to keep it civil. He hates scenes. So be smart: take what you need and *leave*.”
My mind rejected it. This was some absurd play.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, though my voice wavered. “I’ll call the police.”
“Go ahead,” she shrugged. “Tell them what? That your ex is reclaiming his home? They’ll laugh. The paperwork’s sorted.”
She picked up a framed photo from the sideboard—us laughing in Italy.
“Cute,” she sneered. “But it’s clutter. We’ll have better ones soon.”
With a swing, she smashed it into the bin. Glass sang as it shattered.
That sound broke me. I lunged.
She shoved me back effortlessly. “I said *no scenes*,” she hissed. “Oliver’s done with you. He met me and finally understood *real* love—not some tired habit.”
Her words were poison-tipped. Not delusional. She *believed* it.
I grabbed my phone—not for the police. *Oliver.* I needed to hear it from him.
The door opened again.
There he stood.
He looked at her, then at me. His face was blank. Bored.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” he asked *her*.
As if I were already air. A ghost.
The storm inside me stilled into eerie clarity.
“Oliver,” I said softly. “Explain.”
He sighed, like a man enduring petty nonsense. “Anna, I thought Kristina told you. We divorced. A month ago. She’s my wife now.”
The words didn’t hurt. They were just facts.
“Divorced?” I almost smiled. “Without my signature? Without me *knowing*?”
“Technicalities,” he waved off. “But the flat’s mine—*ours*—per the prenup.”
Kristina’s hand curled possessively on his shoulder. “So *leave*, Anna. Don’t make a circus of it.”
I stared. Then smiled wider. Their smirks faltered.
“Know your problem?” I said sweetly. “You think you’re clever. And everyone else is stupid.”
I walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a thick blue folder.
“You’re right, Oliver. There *is* a prenup. But you were too busy with ‘true love’ to read it.”
I flipped it open.
“This flat? Bought with my grandmother’s inheritance. Right here—proof. Clause seven, sub-B: inherited assets *never* split. *Ever*.”
Oliver paled.
I turned to Kristina. “You said, ‘Get out of *my* flat, I’m his wife now’? How touching.”
“Except your husband’s broke. And this flat? *Always* mine. So both of you—*out*. And take those lilies.”
Silence.
Oliver’s face greyed. Kristina’s eyes burned.
Then she exploded.
“You *lied*?!” she shrieked at him. “You said the flat was *yours*!”
“Kristy, love, calm—”
“Don’t *touch* me!” She wrenched away. “You’re *bankrupt*? I traded my life for a *conman*?!”
Their ‘love’ dissolved like fog. Pathetic.
I stood by the door, watching. No longer a player. Just a witness.
Kristina snatched her purse, hurled one last glare, and left, slamming the door.
Oliver muttered curses, then grabbed his coat, crumpled the red cardigan, and flung it down.
“I’ll be back,” he spat.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “Locksmith’s coming in an hour.”
The door clicked shut. I locked it twice.
Later, I tossed the cardigan into the bin—right atop the shattered frame. Bagged their mugs, their groceries, dumped them outside.
Opened every window. Let the evening air purge her cloying stench.
A month passed. The flat changed. Walls warmed to terracotta. A new sofa, a rug with whimsical swirls. Where lilies once sat, a sprawling ficus in clay.
Oliver never returned.
Solicitors said his affairs were dire. Kristina, per gossip, had already snagged a new ‘prospect.’
Sometimes I replay that day. Not with pain. Just a quiet, detached calm.
I’d lived with a stranger. The horror wasn’t losing him—it was never knowing him at all.
What do you make of it? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
